Archive | August, 2010

What To Expect

14 Aug

Life in porn is often fun. It’s also a tremendous amount of pressure.

What To Expect

Be confident. Don’t tell everyone your real name. Make sure you go to the gym. Don’t eat carbs. Don’t eat pastries. Don’t eat. Answer all your emails. Suck your stomach in. Have a smile on your face. Be nice when someone stops you and you’re walking down the street. Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t criticize any studios. Don’t complain about your scene partners. Update your Twitter. Make sure your opinion is the official line of the gay community. Be confident. Don’t talk to guys at bars, they should talk to you. Don’t eat bread. Stand up straight. Don’t talk about your relationships on facebook. Don’t date anyone until you’re all through with this unless he’s in porn too. Don’t get to egotistical but don’t forget who you are, either. Don’t ever under any circumstances act effeminate. Accept that you’re educating the public but that it’s “just porn” at the same time. Don’t complain that your legs hurt when you’re topping. Don’t complain that your ass hurts when you’re bottoming. Cum on command. Don’t let your body slip. Get drunk or do drugs because if you don’t, you’re no fun. Answer the same questions again and again. Pretend that sex is the most interesting thing you can think of. Don’t sound smart. Don’t shave your face. Don’t shave your chest. Don’t shave your ass. Shave everything. Be perfectly smooth. Clean out before every shoot until you can’t take anymore. Don’t ask for higher pay. Be confident. Listen to long talks about how the industry is changing. Be thankful that you got work at all. Make sure you email the studios for more work. Dance at events. Get tested all the time. Pay attention to your sore throat. Have sex with this guy you’re not attracted to. Be okay with it if you don’t get a call back right away. Have an opinion. Don’t have any opinions at all. Talk only about trivial things. Accept that you’ll be made fun of if you say something serious. Don’t joke about that, anything but not that. Worry about the future. Worry about your life. Did you fuck your life up? Don’t tell people that you worry about that. Be confident. Don’t eat pasta. Don’t eat sugar. Don’t complain. Do your job. Make sure you escort. You’re a slut if you escort. Make sure you work for a studio. You’ve got nowhere to go if you work for a studio. Don’t ever teach or work with kids. Hide everything. Don’t hide anything. Have a tan. Work out harder. Understand when someone ends a date because it’s hard to date “someone like you.” Forget about your heart. Work on your body.
Don’t worry if what you’re doing is the right thing. Don’t ever question if it’s the right thing. Be confident. There are no morals here, there’s no imagination, it’s just porn.
Now fuck.

London, Part II

6 Aug

Recently, I went to London.  This is the second part in a series about that trip.

Was I the Only Lonely Person in London?

The woods aren’t a thing in London, they’re American.  The darkness behind trees and empty ponds and clearings: this is where loneliness comes from.  It’s where the work of our most American writers, Emerson and Whitman, rises and grows.  How can someone feel lonely without those big woods – empty of people, passed over, sometimes, by planes but still otherwise?

It’s such an American thing to be lonely.  Even in the middle of London, I felt the tug of it, like a long sigh in my heart.  I traveled there alone, so maybe I’d doomed myself to that feeling.  On the Tube alone, walking around Soho alone, eating alone in the apartment I’d rented: in my bedroom while the living room, kitchen, second bedroom were empty.  I had five shoots in six days, so I couldn’t fuck anyone, I couldn’t go out to drink, I didn’t know if it would be good for me to meet anybody.

I’d arrive at and leave the shoots alone.
I felt loneliness, but all around me, I couldn’t identify that feeling in anyone else.
People were anxious, or tired, or glum, even.  But lonely?

In my favorite British pop music, no one sounds lonely.  Even Daman Albarn’s gravelly perseverance – at his lowest, when he’s pushing himself to get through a song – sounds somehow clever.  Morrissey sounds almost chipper about his sadness.  He simply knows too much about sorrow to be lonely in it.  London seems too smart for loneliness.
You could never have a country song there, no matter how hard you tried.
A friend later explained this to me, “But to Londoners, Johnny Cash sounds clever.”  I nodded but couldn’t believe it.  Johnny cash was smart maybe, but too pained to be clever.

In London, sadness seemed to me to be something someone hovered above.  In America, loneliness grew out of it like a black vine.

I got in a cab to meet Dillon Buck.  If you don’t know him, look him up, you both deserve it.  I have this mental list of porn stars with whom I’ve always want to work.  Some of them are in America and I’m working on it.  Some of them are dead so it will never happen.  Others seem inaccessible, impossible, because they live in other countries.  Dillon was one of them.  Smiling, handsome, scruffy, and so far away.

But I was in a cab to meet him and have sex with him for hours.
I got in the black taxi and the driver seemed too clueless to have a feeling.  The backs of black cabs are so big and open, you could have a party (or record music – there’s a series of videos where musicians perform in the backs of black cabs).  I sat in the big open space and said the address, which was off of Brayburne.
“Brayburne, that’s a road, is it?” The cabbie asked.
I felt lost and looked everything up on the map on my phone and we drove towards the shoot.  What was I doing in London, meeting someone on a list of unattainable men?  What was I doing here alone, where I couldn’t drink or fuck or eat to find comfort?

We turned the corner and the street was blocked off.  On the road was an overturned motorbike, with smashed glass around it and chunks of metal lying without a care on the curb.  There was a person laying by it, turned a way he shouldn’t be turned, arms and legs in the wrong directions.  A police officer waved the cars away with a look on his face that could not have been cold or merely purposeful.  He was holding that pain in and it was contorting his features.  Go away, go away, someone is hurt here, don’t look.

So there was grief, in the middle of the road, and who has time for loneliness when your whole city is holding grief in, together?
The cab moved slowly until the wreck disappeared with its metal and plastic and bone behind a corner.

I got to the set and the accident, still in my memory, managed to slip behind some corner of my mind too:  Dillon was there with a smile on his face.  His smile is so big that you can’t help but relax into it.  A friend.  And it was his birthday.

We kissed and we fucked and you know the rest.  You can see the scene soon, up at ButchDixon.com – There’s a photo set there now, and the images will do it better justice than my writing.  I’ve added two below.

After our shoot, we had a cake.  Dillon blew out the candles.  I made a wish on top of his.  We kissed again.  We had dinner.  I had a friend, and London felt warmer.


London, Pt. I

3 Aug

This Is How London Feels

In London, everything is old, nothing is innocent. If you’re in London and you want to be reminded that you’re in a foreign country, look up. The buildings, at their tops, curve and twist in on themselves in elegant, baroque designs. It’s like peering into the ocean. Where you stand everything seems normal; then shift your gaze into it and there are these curling shapes – the shapes of shells and movement – but in London, the shapes are up in the stone. Or if not baroque, they’re brick and stern. Or they’ve got ivy on them or strange windows or they’re gray and quiet.
You’ll casually pass by things in London that are older than anything you’ve ever seen. A churchyard sits with crows and the teeth of tensely leaning graves markers; the years and the names erased.
People’s souls are old. Everyone seems well-dressed (or “smart” as they say); everyone is reading. There are even advertisements for books in the subway. It’s something to be excited about; some of the books are even high-minded.
After living in the new – and San Francisco is so utterly new – I wondered how London could even still be there. I was grateful that it was, though. Its being translates the past for an American into present tense. It’s like a missing link. You can understand that the pagans once filled the hills because the buildings look mystical, the people seem up to something; it’s all mysterious.
There are images of animals everywhere. In Trafalgar Square, there are four lions, keeping watch over all the directions of the city. Lions. The memory of London is old enough to reach back into a time where lions meant something. Not just the villains in nature documentaries but beings that once walked around – thousands of years ago, yes, but around nonetheless. And somehow remembered by the culture and honored by kings in medieval times.
If you go to London, go see the Lions. They are guarding, I have read, the column in the middle, meant to honor an admiral. But they seemed to me to be guarding the whole city. Like they were ready to come to life at any moment, or to burn with glowing light or wings like the archangel Michael – found in esoteric literature in the form of a winged lion – and protect London from trouble. Go sit between their paws and close your eyes and listen to the kids – loud drunk kids, because some things are universal – clambering over the lions affectionately. And listen to the rushing of the city (which is quieter and more refined than New York rushing). It will make you feel the spirit of London deeply – it’s an intense feeling; like a thread between yourself and everything that lead up to you.
Then, when you’re done, have sex with an Italian fitness magazine model.
More on that later.

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